


waves

by Xine



Series: palms [3]
Category: DRAMAtical Murder (Visual Novel), DRAMAtical Murder - All Media Types
Genre: Bath Sex, Bathing/Washing, M/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-05
Updated: 2015-05-05
Packaged: 2018-03-29 04:59:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3883201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xine/pseuds/Xine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He fits so well in your lap—knees grazing the sides of your ribcage, thighs pressed against your own, arms draped over the slopes of your shoulder muscles—and it feels as if he belongs there, limbs tangling, your bodies enfolding one another in the most natural way. </p><p>(Second-person Mink POV, set immediately after palms V)</p>
            </blockquote>





	waves

**Author's Note:**

> You push and you pull  
> But you'd never know  
> I crept up in you and I  
> Wouldn't let go
> 
> [_Push pull._ ](www.youtube.com/watch?v=xiV0RN0mPSk)

With the smile still pulling at your lips, you step to stand beside Noiz and place your hand onto the small of his back, watching him glare at the bathwater spilling over the floor. You ask if he’s alright—your thumb dipping into the dimples of his back as you draw crooked lines onto the skin—and when the muttering under his breath stops he looks up at you. He nods, not looking flustered or embarrassed but instead rather casual, the annoyance in his clenched jaw slowly fading away.

You take your hand off of his person and submerge your fingertips into the tub, testing the temp for yourself. The water, in actuality, isn’t too hot, and you think that Noiz’ sudden and pained reaction is due to his over-sensitive nerves, untrained and not yet adapted to near-extreme temperatures.

You don’t blame him. In many ways, he’s like a child, having to relearn one of his senses that—just under two weeks prior—was only capable of detecting pressure changes and nothing else.

You step in first, carefully immersing your lower leg into the heated water before stepping inside with your other leg. After you settle into a sitting position—back resting against the longest side of the tub—you hold out your hand to Noiz, who looks like he’s awaiting your verdict on the temperature of the bath. Even though you say nothing to reassure him, he grasps your hand firmly anyways and trusts your wordless judgment, using your arm as leverage so as not to slip on the soaked tile floor.

The bandage itches at the skin of your palm as he joins you, pristine and freshly redressed. He grimaces just slightly while he initially gets a feeling of the water, knitting his brows as he stands still and pauses, likely to see if his body can withstand the heat. It takes him a few moments, but gradually he begins to sink down beside you, twisting around so he can face you. The two of you let go of one another’s hands naturally, Noiz pulling his legs close to his chest, hugging his knees as he lets out a quiet exhale.

The hush—apart from the incidental splash of water, the occasional sigh of relaxation—descends comfortably over you both. You let yourself bask in the soothing heat, muscles going soft, the ache in your neck and the knot above your shoulder blades withering away painlessly while you mindlessly observe the wavering reflections of the water.

You decide to break the silence, however, when you notice that he hasn't taken his eyes off of your own throughout the entirety of this soundless moment.

Meeting his gaze, you ask if he has bathed yet, to which he responds simply by shaking his head "no." You hum, then tell him to turn away, to mirror your own position with his back to the porcelain surface, and he obliges with an understanding of what your intentions are. To your right sits both the wide-mouthed faucet and the detachable showerhead, their respective valves resting beside their bases in a spotless, polished steel.

You lift the showerhead from its hook and twist the hot-and-cold valves gingerly, letting the water pour over your free hand to level the temperature into a pleasant warmth. Turning back to face the one accompanying you, you hold the low-pressure tap above his head, running your fingers through the fair-colored locks to thoroughly saturate them with the liquid. He lets his lids fall closed while you work, droplets dripping down his forehead only to be caught onto his dark eyelashes.

You don't mind his staring—it hardly fazes you, considering how you appear to him now—yet you know that if you repeated the same question from earlier he would merely give you the same answer, one that does little to expose his thought process, to portray his feelings on your sudden gesture of trust, to present his understanding of your decision to remove yourself from one more aspect of the person you are not.

So, you opted for the unspoken option instead.

Shutting off the water flow and replacing the head onto its hook, you rise from the tub for a brief moment to grab the coordinating shampoo, conditioner, and body wash bottles from the shelves inside the shower, leaving a wet trail behind you as you return to the bath. Noiz swipes the stray liquid from his face, the lengths of his fingers forming along the curves of his cheekbones in single, smooth motion.

After placing the transparent bottles on the flattened edge of the tub, you seat yourself next to his curled-up form once more. You reach behind you and push down onto the shampoo pump, viscous soap—metallic, glimmering silvers in numerous shades and highlights—pooling into your palm. It’s soft, airy, light as you lather it within your hands, suds seeping over the webs between your digits.

When you turn to face Noiz once again, you bring the white foam to the strawberry blond tresses atop his head, and the moment you gently scrape your nails across his scalp you can feel him melting at the touch, shoulders drooping, legs parting from his chest, eyelids fluttering closed. You’re careful to not pull at the strands, dragging your fingertips from his hairline to the back of his skull repeatedly, massaging the shampoo in circular ministrations, and while you listen to him sigh out his stresses you remember that—in the culture you’re living in—you’re using the bath incorrectly.

Washing inside the tub was expected—using more water than necessary was seen as a waste—by the tribe, and most homes didn't have showers. You assume that the customs were of a similar vein for where Noiz was raised, and you know he doesn't mind as he hasn't said one thing since you began lathering his hair, relishing in the attention you're giving him.

You dive your hands into the water to rid them of the excess soap and take the showerhead again, replicating the same process to rinse his hair.

The conditioner is a cloudy white, and it’s as if it transforms his locks into pure silk as you run it through the short strands. You let it sit for a few moments, and while you wait you properly take in the image of him as he is now: face no longer framed by sharpened fringe; features riddled not with metal but with meager, reddened dots; skin bare and glistening underneath the warm illumination of the ceiling lamps.

He looks older this way, somehow, and sometimes he doesn’t seem to be as young as he actually is. His behavior—cold, uncooperative, independent—often belies this statement, but even when he was covered with silver and clothed in attire you’ve only ever seen on people of his own age group, he never quite looked nineteen to you. The kid’s attitude is typical of a distanced teenager, yet—until he told you explicitly—you were always left unable to decipher the ambiguity behind his actual age.

Perhaps it was due to him being a person who grew up too fast, left to his own devices and abandoned by his parents at such a young age. The exact details had been left unspoken, yet the pieces given to you told enough.

The lull in physical contact makes him open his eyes once more, chartreuse irises shifting and peeking at you from the edge of his vision. You don’t move, scanning along the contours and planes of his profile until he slightly turns to face you properly, and as he brings his legs closer to his torso again he simply asks the word “what,” voice subtly diffident.

You find his aversion to being stared at to be—if anything—hypocritical, however you don’t consider it to be bothersome nor a nuisance. He’s revealing parts of himself gradually, starting to grow fully comfortable with you, opening up and finally surrendering any self-conscious reservations he may have. You had avoided doing the same for some time until you resolved and gave in, removing the sea green lens, leaving your skin exposed and unobstructed, stripping yourself and waiting for him to take what he wanted.

It all is so liberating, allowing yourself to let go and to have someone give themselves so openly, and it’s as if you’ve entirely forgotten how it was to live without boundaries dividing you from those you hold important.

In response you merely say that you’re fascinated, seeing him with his hair pushed from his face, form completely naked if not for the tunnels in his earlobes and the studs peeking out of his skin from below his waist. For a moment he continues to gaze at you without a twitch of a muscle, but soon he purses his lips and looks away, hiding his face. You don’t think he’s blushing—complexion so fair the blood shines beneath it like a flame under paper—but you’ve definitely embarrassed him unintentionally.

You run the digits of your left hand through his flattened hair and loosen the strands while you reach for the showerhead with the other, switching it on with a flick of your thumb. You pull your hand away momentarily to adjust the valves, ensuring you achieve a comfortable water temperature as before, soothing stream pouring over the back of your knuckles.

His face still remains hidden from you, yet you pay it little mind as you rinse the conditioner out of the pale tresses, applying firm but gentle pressure onto his scalp, creating endless loops around his skull with your fingertips. You think his shyness had passed when he echoes your own question—”Have you bathed yet?”—and when his voice sounds a little louder, this time clearer and less demure. Cupping his hairline with the side of your palm, you answer and say you haven’t, your attention focused on keeping water out of his eyes.

After you finish, he twists his body to give you a look, brows furrowed and head just barely tilted, a soundless way of wondering why you’re even inside this tub yourself. Initially you aren’t certain of the reason behind his reaction, but after a short meeting glance you remember exactly who this person is: one who would have never found a bath or a shower as more than a means of maintaining their hygiene, one who has yet to unlearn such a perspective. Considering you were the one to suggest this, he probably finds your motives to be useless.

As you place the detachable showerhead beside the faucet, you reply with your wanting to relax, and when you meet his gaze Noiz grins as if he both understands your intentions and came up with some new ones of his own.

You take the body wash bottle from the edge of the tub and flip it upside down, squeezing the curved container and pouring the translucent lilac soap into your hand. You start at his upper back, lathering the suds across his shoulders and bringing the foam down his arms, rubbing elliptical rings across the taut muscle, returning from the limbs and trailing over the edges of his shoulder blades, flattening your fingers over the dips and dumps of his spine.

Sliding your hand around his ribcage, you drag the cleanser against the flesh of his chest, his frame beginning to go along, to turn at the motion, to properly sit opposite of yourself and look at you directly. When you drift down to wash his stomach—fingertip grazing the barbell at his navel—he leans forward, pressing his lips onto yours slowly, your hand pausing in its movement while his raises to settle on your collarbone.

He hums softly as you push back, and he brings himself closer to your frame—form resting between your legs—before he parts from you. With the prickling of the bandage hovering at your shoulder, Noiz asks about what you did today prior to coming back to the apartment.

The question is mundane, domestic, so ordinary and normal that you can’t keep yourself from loving the simplicity of it all, of the skin brushing your own, of the heated water surrounding your upper arms, of the words given to you not out of some bitter suspicion or ulterior motive but out of genuine curiosity.

You confide in him that you went to a clothing store down in the shopping districts, and while you speak his other hand drifts onto your chest, tracing his thumb across your sternum. While you specify what you had purchased—new t-shirts and a proper set of sleepwear—he climbs into your lap and straddles your thighs, water spilling over the rim of the tub with a soundly splash onto the flooring. A smile tugs at his lips again—soft but mischievous—and with his face merely a few inches from your own, he makes a joke that you could have borrowed some of his clothes if you were so tired of sleeping in your underwear.

The same grin forms at your mouth and you chuckle, watching Noiz become little more than a blurred image of peach hair, pale flesh, darkened eyelashes as he leans in closer—tilting his head just so—and you reply that you would only manage to tear apart his clothes if you attempted to put them on. The banter ends with him kissing you, lips molding together, his tongue sneaking past the part of your mouth to swipe over your teeth.

The rippling, gentle splash of fluid fills your ears, and you allow your eyelids to fall as the pierced muscle thrusts into your mouth, pushing your head back with the sudden intensity. Shifting your arms from his stomach to his back and wrapping them around his lean torso, you urge forward with an equaled force, rewarding you a muffled moan while he balances himself by bracing an arm behind your neck. He skirts his bare hand to rest at your neck, fingers taking the tied-up dreadlocks between themselves and pinching the ropes with his thumb and forefinger.

After just barely separating for a breath of air for a few moments, the embrace becomes less hurried, his pecks softer, lazier, and you think that the sweltering heat of the water is finally getting to him by the sultry feeling of his back under your palms.

You pull fully away this time, inhaling the humid air as you lift open your eyelids to find Noiz—cheeks painted pink, hair beginning to dry in accidental waves and curls—breathing heavily already, looking back at you with an excitement glinting faintly in his eyes. He responds that he’s fine when you inquire about his being okay, lunging for your mouth again when he’s finished speaking. You welcome it, dragging your teeth lightly on his tongue as it prods past your lips for the second time.

He fits so well in your lap—knees grazing the sides of your ribcage, thighs pressed against your own, arms draped over the slopes of your shoulder muscles—and it feels as if he belongs there, limbs tangling, your bodies enfolding one another in the most natural way. There’s no longer a strained knot in your shoulders, in your lower back, and immersed in the alleviating, soapy water, holding onto the person that changed your life for the better, you can’t imagine that there is a better place for you to belong.

You don’t want this to ever end.

As the kisses rise to an increasingly desperate rate Noiz begins to rut against your abdomen involuntarily, captured in his yearning, rolling his hips in uneven, staggered motions in a growing and frantic attempt to get some sort of friction from you. Each caress of his thighs steals more air from your lungs, eliciting raspier breaths and louder groans from your throat, and eventually you abandon your patience, bucking into the oscillating movements with him.

You straighten your back, tighten your arms around his torso, and begin grinding his cock properly—entrapping it between your stomach and his own—the two pairs of barbells skimming over your abdomen. He breaks the kiss and lets out a shaky and quiet cry, his head lolling backward, exposing the sinewy flesh of his neck that quivers with every unsteady breath he takes in rhythm with your rocking hips.

Without hesitation you jut your head forward, urging the tip of your tongue carefully onto the hollow of his throat, licking upward and sucking on the skin covering his Adam’s apple. He draws in a sharp inhale—fingernails thoughtlessly sinking into your neck, into the muscle of your chest—and you ponder how long he will last at the pace you’re going at now.

While the grip on the base of your skull grows tighter, he shifts and presses the wrist of his other, still healing hand against the upper half of your shoulder blade, and the spacious room floods with the echo of sloshing liquid, of shuddering moans, of broken and hoarse gasps of two voices intermingling with one another as the both of you fall into tempo.

Soon he speaks up—words rough as they leave his lips—and he pleads for more, bowing his head down to kiss you—once, twice—before breaking away again and resting his forehead against yours. Your eyes flutter open and you lean backward enough for your vision to focus, taking in the image of him softened and mouth agape, flushed from his cheekbones to his collarbones, hair haphazardly sprawling in messy and damp curls, eyelids heavy as he blearily gazes at you.

He’s gorgeous—there’s no other descriptor you could give unto it—with the way he seems to just come completely undone when you touch him now, becoming less and less composed the longer you go on for.

In the past, when he would meet with you at the abandoned, crumbling building in the North District, when you would meet with him in some crowded, bass-heavy nightclub in Platinum Jail, he always held a sort of reluctance, too reserved to unhinge himself totally and absolutely.

It’s evident to you, however, that his lack of response each time was largely attributed to his inability to feel most of the pleasure you put him under, but you know full well that—like yourself—he would also not allow himself to open up to you at that time, not after learning in many painful, unforgiving ways that growing closer to someone could easily lead to the same rejection he is all too familiar with.

The past couple weeks since he came to you—standing before you in soft light, kissing you so gently, taking you by the wrist, leading you to do with him as you will—have been a time for readjustment, relearning, restoration, not just for him but yourself as well. Already, your lives have begun to meld together, the two of you breathing the same air, sharing the same bed, sitting side-by-side on the couch silently while he absentmindedly rubs circles on your knuckles.

There are many things that have been left unsaid, confessions that must be heard out loud before the relationship threatens to tear apart at the seams, but you know that both of you still need time, and even if he isn’t ready when you are, you will wait.

You slide one hand from his back to his front—lightly skimming along each ridge of his ribcage—and push at him gently, creating a space between your bodies before you wrap your fingers around his cock. The whine he lets out is quiet, yet even over the reverberating waves you can hear it ring soundly in your ears while you begin stroking. He continues to roll his hips, bucking into your grip with every tug you make.

It doesn’t take him long before he interrupts, stalling the writhing movements he built up in your lap, pleading again with the word “more.” You hum, inquiring an elaboration while you maintain your speed around his dick, and through his moans he says you know what he means. You don’t remove your hold—stroking him steadily—while you tell him that you won't go further without some sort of lubricant.

Noiz lets out a huff, muttering something about the first time—back at the Scratch headquarters, a rushed and adrenaline-driven fuck on that creaky cot—where you hadn't and how it went fine. You snort and pump him faster in retaliation for his hastiness, listening to him gasp for air while you explain that it was stupid and that he was lucky nothing went wrong.

He gives in, lightly shoving at your shoulders with the heels of his hands to convince you to stop. You release your grasp to settle it atop his thigh, caressing the muscle as you wait for him to catch his breath. While he rebuilds his composure he says that there's a bottle in the endtable drawer beside the bed, the nod of his head in the direction of the bedroom hardly resembling one at all.

You try to untangle your limbs from his, yet he doesn't work to do the same, clinging onto you and unmoving from his place between your legs as if you were to carry him out with him latched around your waist. When you give him a look—questioning and mildly confused—he insists that he goes along, bringing his legs forward and encircling them around you. Immediately you shake your head, lifting your arms upward to grab the two limbs resting at either side of your neck, telling him that he's still covered with soap suds and that the bath would be easier for the first time.

A pout darkens his features, yet instead of reacting with shutting you out entirely he abides, silently agreeing, and as he untwines from you you can't keep yourself from finding his small frown endearingly befitting of his age and—dare you say—cute.

The rush of cool air after you step out of the tub is sharp, and it sends goosebumps across the stretch of your legs while you grab a towel from the row of shelves beside the door and wrap the cloth around your waist. You give your feet a quick dry on the carpet in front of the doorway before leaving, heading to the bedroom with a few water droplets trailing your path.

Walking into the bedroom, you glance at the gradually reddening skies peering past the open blinds, the sun preparing its descent towards the horizon. You open the drawer and grab the meager bottle of lube, wasting no time to return to the bathroom.

When you go back inside you watch Noiz cup water in both of his hands and throw the fluid behind him, rinsing off the foam still sticking to the skin of his pink-tinted back, arms glistening under the lamplight. You yank the towel from its hold around your hips and hook it on the wall mount above the counters—stacks of disheveled clothing piled atop the stone surface—before making your way to the tub.

Noiz turns his body to stare up at you and you notice that, with his complexion coated in a fair shade of orchid, he looks like he had the wind knocked out of his lungs, chest shrinking and expanding rapidly even as he had earlier evened out his breathing.

You reach down with your spare hand and pull the drain plug’s lever, starting the process to rid of excess water. It's almost instantly that he clamors into your lap again when you rejoin him in the bath, lean legs straddling the muscles of your own dense thighs, hands clutching onto your upper arms. You place the rounded bottle to the side and, with your hands braced on his lower back, you scoot backward until you're flush against the head of the bathtub. He takes your mouth for a second time, licking at your lower lip and swiping his tongue at the edges of your teeth when you open up.

As his chin grazes your own you think that you will actually miss the feeling of the sharp piercings poking your skin.

You kiss him back leisurely until he parts to take a breath, and you take the lull in intimacy to slide down and lie back against the side of the tub, stopping when the base of your neck touches the edge. He asks what you're doing as you hold his hips and push them up, nudging him to keep his haunches above the surface—ensuring the lube doesn’t wash away—before you reach to your right and grasp the bottle.

Upon your request he moves his hands from your arms to the rim behind your head, staring down with his head hovering above you, meeting your eyes as you gaze up at him. He doesn’t say anything else, features no longer bent in a confused expression while he watches you, seemingly understanding the position change.

Before you flip open the lid you ask if he’s sure, rubbing your thumb of your free hand over his side in crooked circles, tracing over the arc of his hip bone. He swallows, gaze unflinching, and with his voice thick all he says is “Yeah.” Removing your grasp on his hip you give the palm-sized bottle a squeeze, the thin, transparent liquid flowing into the grooves dividing each of your fingers freely as it pours into your hand. You set the bottle aside and bring your digits to float over his curved rear.

Noiz lets out a shuddering sigh as you raise your chin to kiss him—his breath hot, delicate, balmy like a kind summer breeze—and he meets you easily as every time previously, sucking onto your lower lip with rising fervor. Once you stroke a soaked finger over his entrance, you deepen the kiss, thrusting your tongue suddenly into his mouth, and the surprised sound he emits is—if it weren’t for the naturally low tone of his voice—akin to a yelp.

While you introduce him to the unfamiliar sensation you note the height of the water, deciding that it is low enough for you to flick your foot over the lever at the opposite side of the tub. Then, carefully, you ease your middle finger inside him, and the moan he tries to choke out is trapped in his throat, caught and halted by the tongue gliding against his. The figure above you goes stiff, lips hard as he tries to press them back onto yours.

His attempts to go on kissing you throughout the new ministrations curling within him is ultimately futile. He breaks from you, gasping, his breathing low and difficult to hear, yet even as you delve deeper with the single digit he doesn’t say a word. You watch him unravel—brows upturned, jaw slackened, eyelids heavy, hair drooping—as he grows accustomed to your prodding.

The memory of the first time you did this to him—moans nearly inaudible, nicely done bedsheets wrinkling, heel of his foot digging into your thigh—flickers in your mind, images blurry in their clarity yet vibrant in color as you recall them in a heat-induced haze. It was almost effortless then, going by so quickly that it seems like it lasted only seconds in comparison to now, each moment passing as if the two of you were moving in slow motion.

The arms beside your head are already trembling—hands braced with a death grip on the side of the tub—and you chuckle at that he’s gone flustered from just one of your fingers. Despite how distant he appears Noiz notices your amusement, commanding you in distracted chagrin to not laugh at him, breathless words interrupted by faltering panting as you gradually push in your forefinger.

His lungs let out another cry at the added girth and you’re captivated by the way his body squirms when you crook the digits over his inner walls. You capture the heart of his throat between your lips again, licking the vulnerable skin gingerly then pecking down along the tendons and across his collarbone, listening to him pant sharply in response to each push of your fingers.

It doesn’t take long for him to ride against your hand, rocking his hips to meet your pumping half-way, and you know that by the volume of his moans swelling, that without him speaking aloud, he’ll want to go further soon.

You ask if he’s ready, but he struggles to form his lips around a single syllable as his body continues to reach out for more of the sensations twirling inside him. All he can give is an enthusiastic nod, reckless and frenetic, concentrating on your touches more than a verbal response. You quickly apply additional lubricant and stretch him out for a bit longer until he starts mumbling in a language that—while you don’t understand the semantics of—you can surely interpret the tone behind the mutterings.

You pull out slowly—attentive to avoid shocking the muscle—and hold a hand on his side while you sit up. He lowers his body as your grip steadies him downward; his bandaged palm settles atop your shoulder while bringing his other hand underwater to find your cock and curl his fingers around it, guiding you to his entrance. The touch of his grasp causes you to take in a sharp breath, and you wonder if it was because you had been so focused on ensuring his comfort that you hadn't realized how hard you were.

He glances at your eyes briefly—watching your face while you hold your breath—as the head presses at his hole, but when the glans enters him fully his lids squeeze shut, teeth clenching together, nails at your shoulder digging into the flesh, legs quivering as he keeps himself straddled over your lap. You let out the sigh you were holding when he goes still to adapt to the unfamiliar feeling, sliding your arms around his waist and flattening your hands along the arch of his spine as you soak in how tight he is.

After a few moments of unshifting silence he begins to move, carefully riding on just the head and gradually sinking further as he becomes relaxed, thawed, pliable in your embrace. His moans grow rougher when he leans his upper body against yours, dropping his forehead onto your shoulder, dampened breaths ghosting over the length of your neck more and more with each deeper thrust.

You bury the side of your face into his hair—locks coiling under the edge of your jaw, over the bridge of your nose—and as he drops harder into your lap the water carries his weight, spurring his legs to move in constant, oscillating motions as the waves collide around his waist.

Already—not unexpected, considering his circumstance—Noiz sounds as if he’s close, his panting falling shorter, scratchier, shakier. You attempt to slide your hand over his ribs to stroke his cock—fingertips just barely grazing the piercing at the tip—but he interjects, saying that he wants this to last as long as possible, tightening his arms around your neck. You comply and instead start rubbing elliptical circles over a nipple, listening to his voice hitch suddenly.

Your senses are becoming overwhelmed—the heat flooding your veins as if the blood flowing within them was made of liquid fire—and you find yourself falling into a clouded daze, absorbing the feeling of his skin touching yours and knowing that he can feel it just as well as you can. There’s a rapid pulsing between your palms and his back, and you aren’t able to distinguish if the throbbing is from the pads of your fingers or from the flesh below his shoulder blades.

The water splashing bounces off the tiled walls with a roaring intensity, the sound beating at your eardrums, blending with the gasping reverberating underneath your jaw. Sweat beads at your temple as you get closer to your orgasm, your lower half involuntarily bucking in search for release from your plateau. He raises his head and his moans ring clearly in your ears, his uninjured hand reaching behind you to intertwine nimble fingers with the low-hanging ropes.

The longer he manages the less you think your body can persist with him, your hand shifting to sit upon his thigh in your effort to hold on until he himself finishes.

You bend your knees, putting all your weight into your feet as you push your heels against the porcelain floor of the tub and then rock your hips upward. He gasps in surprise at the sudden strength scraping his insides as you drive deeper into him, his legs kicking forward and his ankles hooking together at your back, mirroring your movements to bound harder against your thrusts.

He lasts through several more before he speaks, his voice a mere whisper as he tells you he’s going to come, and when you return your hand to his dick he doesn’t cutoff the action this time. You stroke him—your fingertips catching the piercings along the length with each tug—and he presses his face against your cheek as he comes, the arm encircling your back, the grip in your hair, the legs framing your sides going rigid during the height of his climax. 

You push solidly into him four, five more times until you reach your own limit, coming with a sob as you bury your face in his neck, holding onto him firmly while the orgasm bursting in your gut steadily diminishes. He waits for your muscles to calm before lifting his hips up, a whimper sneaking out of his throat at the newfound absence.

For a long moment the room falls silent, the two of you sitting still in the afterglow. Noiz is the first one to move, leaning backward to look at you and you can tell from his heavy-lidded stare that he is equally exhausted. Your body drowns in the tiredness lowering over the two of you while the thumping of your heart reverts to its normal, relaxed state.

You release his softening dick, yet when you try to take your arm off of his shoulder he faintly says not to, imploring that you keep on holding him just like this, a desperation lining his features before he hugs you tighter and returns his head to its place against your neck. The grasp on your dreads loosens, soon replaced by a caress over the base of your skull and down the bony bumps of your nape. 

Lowly, you simply respond with “Okay,” wrapping your other arm around his back to enfold his smaller frame with as much tenderness as you can muster, dimly wondering if you're being too careful, if you should pull him closer instead and never let go.

Your foot pushes up to unlock the plug switch and empty out the murky bathwater, dwindling suds floating past your calves as the liquid swirls into the rounded drain. This closeness makes you drift away, suffocating your lungs as you remind yourself that this—heart beating in synchronization with your own, breath dancing over your skin, warmth radiating and penetrating your core—is something you couldn’t bear to have taken from you, to have ripped from your grasp in any way like that loss you had suffered years ago.

Time passes slowly and you don’t mind. The wetness of the water vanishes away, but both of you remain inside the drained bath, the only movements among your bodies—aside from your breathing—being the repetitive stroking at his back and the eyelashes fluttering over the pulse in your neck.

You decide, however, that the hard porcelain is far from comfortable, and with his legs and arms securely encasing your frame you use the tub’s rim to leverage yourself, hoisting the weight of two people as you rise to stand on your feet. You step out, cautious of any pooled water lingering on the ground, and leave the washroom as you support his form with an arm under his haunches.

With him latched onto you—clinging as if he was an extension of yourself—you carry him into his bedroom, and combined with your post-sex sleepiness and your lack of recent exercise he seems heavier than before.

You kneel onto the mattress and lower his body onto the bed, hovering over him as he unfolds his legs from your lower back and lies his head atop the pillow. Afternoon sunlight filters and peers through the gaps of the window blinds in bright strips across the navy sheets, across the creamy hue of his complexion, the room otherwise dim, mellow.

Noiz continues to hold onto your back while you rest on him and flush your hips, your stomach against his, propping your torso up with your elbows as you look down at him, legs sprawled and tangled together.

He searches your features—over your sweat-covered brow, over your weary eyes, over your parted lips—then kisses the corner of your mouth, a spot he has seemingly become fond of pressing his lips to. His gauze-covered hand cups your jaw after he breaks from the kiss, pad of his thumb brushing over your cheek as he looks at you seriously, expression strangely somber.

Not once does his gaze falter from your eyes as you stare back at him, the thumb continuously tracing the edge of your cheekbone in an affectionate tone that conflicts with the thoughtful wrinkle lining his brows. You try to read what exactly that expression, that gesture means, but you are unable to determine what is going on in his mind; he just bores his narrow eyes into yours, directly and unflinchingly.

You finally inquire what he's so attentively thinking about, and you aren't sure what it is about your question that changes his disposition, but a small grin appears on his lips for the first time since you washed his hair and he opens his mouth to speak, cradling your head in his hands and simply saying, "I like that color on you.”

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote and finished this ages ago, but with a combination of personal issues and university kicking my ass, I neglected to post this piece until now (thankfully, DMMd rarepair week gave me the perfect opportunity to publish this). After the miserable tone of _still_ , I really wanted to write something that didn't end in a horrible and painful way for these two. I hope that it was at least a little bit worth the wait.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! Kudos and comments are greatly appreciated! If you enjoyed this, please share it on tumblr over [here](http://offdensen.tumblr.com/post/118218592156/waves-a-mink-noiz-fanfiction-rating-explicit). ♡


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